


Burdened is the blessed.

by kanpekinalady



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 5 + 1, Gen, swanmaiden au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 17:46:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1613825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanpekinalady/pseuds/kanpekinalady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the beginning he steals away her pelt and muzzles her prayers to the moon. Sansa dons herself in a robe of feathers instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burdened is the blessed.

_Burdened is the blessed_

_**maiden with robes of feathers made to gold.** _

 

**I.**

 

In the beginning he steals away her pelt and muzzles her prayers to the moon. But his smile reflects in the light and his words drip with soft lace to bandage her wounds, so Sansa dons herself in a robe of feathers instead. He is her golden Prince, her doe-eyed lionheart. She dreams of children with hair flaming red and smiles made of sunbeams, chasing through the gardens of King’s landing, their impish giggling for music in the distance.

 

She would be his queen and make him happy.

 

(But this is not a tale of Queens made.)

 

In the end, the lace was soaked with dried venom and he decorates his dishes with her dear lord father’s head. Despite her pleas, despite her tears. His men tear at her feathers until she’s plucked dry and the King’s laughter rings sweet throughout his halls. Her wounds never heal, ever fester under his prudent tutelage of strong fists wrapped tight around her neck.

 

**II.**

 

“Little dove.”

 

She is not a little dove. But when the sun makes the tiles of the throne room glitter all around her and she stands hidden in the golden queen’s shadow, she feels like one. The queen wears a robe of feathers of her own – spun of gold, not one feather bent, perfect –, to hide the translucent blues that time has branded on her skin with hot steel. A fake exemplar, but it glows bright all the same. The queen has a sweet smile and beautiful eyes, and a tongue as sharp as her claws. The grasp with which they hold Sansa is tight and unrelenting.

 

“Little dove.”

 

Doves are perfect prey for lions; and it is the lioness that goes in for the kill. After hours of patient chasing, crimson drips down her beard. Sansa’s wings are broken, her chirping silenced. She is the maiden in grey with chains of air rattling behind her as the queen picks at her feathers for fun and she learns to swallow the taste of bitterness. She is the perfect prey, squashed beneath heavy paws that cut her breath and possessive claws that prick through her chest.

 

You’re mine, she can almost read in those green eyes. To own. To end.

 

“Little dove.”

 

For now this little dove sings to the lioness’ wishes.

 

“Little dove.”

 

(She is not a little dove.)

 

**III.**

 

Roses look so dainty and smell so sweet. They blow soft whispers in her ears and promise her deceit. They are bony fingers, twisting strands of her hair closer and closer round themselves, reigning her in. They offer her a home to call her own, a fire to sit by, a husband to make her a lady. They offer her their friendship, plucking the feathers from her back as they smile lovingly.

 

(But this is not a tale of Ladies made, remember?)

 

She wanted to trade claws for thorns. Let the thorns prick her eyes, leaving her blind and ailing. Wanted the vines to smother her in her sleep. Sansa never discovers this truth; a lion’s fangs reach deeper than roses could ever prick.

 

**IV.**

 

He is the father of all lions. Her feathers are his to govern and the roses are too greedy, he thinks. So he steals her feathers for safeguarding and shapes this nude dove into his son’s little lioness, cloaks her in the colours she so despises. Her grey is stripped, the feathers to return with time, and she becomes the maiden in red. For the sickening cloak that is her new skin. For the tears that have bled from her eyes. For her maidenblood which will never weep.

 

(She is not a little dove. She will never be a lion.)

 

So her coat of red becomes the roses’ offering and the key to a lock even crueller.

 

**V.**

 

He is the mockingbird with pretty songs.

 

He is the mockingbird; and he turns her into his kin. With a bit of brown dye she becomes a dove of a different hue. Stolen from the capital and taken in as his own, he teaches her to remember.

 

Alayne Stone.

 

He will protect her, keep her safe from the feline’s grip, as long as she just remembers.

 

Alayne Stone.

 

He will teach her his songs and groom her feathers to perfection, his fingertips always lingering a bit too long. His eyes always staring a bit too much. He will show her the ropes and draw the curtains. She just has to play her part and remember.

 

Always just remember.

 

Alayne Stone.

 

He will adorn her head with a crown in due time. Queen of the stronghold of ruins; and he will succeed. He will put her on that cold, stone throne her forefathers sat on. Under his nurturing her feathers will come to shine.

 

Remember.

 

Alayne Stone.

 

Remember.

 

(But this is not a tale of Queens made.)

 

Until that time she makes a good daughter. She makes a good pet. The mockingbird too, he mistakes her, sees her for the little dove she has been and not for what was taken from her. She waits and dreams of castles falling from the skies. It snows, and she smiles.

 

Remember.

 

(She is not a little dove.)

 

A little push is all it takes. He showed her once and her aunt did not fly. Neither does the mockingbird. She does not want to, but she mourns him anyways.

 

(Remember.)

 

Winter has come, and winter feels like home. Safe. The frozen throne of old soothes her.

 

**VI.**

 

She takes the cold as her lover and slips out of her robe of feathers. It has only brought her misery, garnered her nothing but undesired hankerings. She plucks the feathers herself and sells them along the way. She is the maiden in grey returned. Returned to the ruins the leeches have left behind. The dragons have gone and the white walkers with them. When she returns, the vast darkness has made way for the first rays of light.

 

Pieces of the godswood is all that remains.

 

Winter has howled its loudest storms, caressing her ears with long lost secrets. Winter still feels like home, so Sansa listens. She hires workers and builders that followed in her footsteps, lured by the promise of good work for good wages.

 

Sansa rebuilds Winterfell from the white flakes up.

 

(This is not a tale of Queens made however.)

 

Talk of the Stark’s homecoming has spread through the North and the Northerners slowly return home. Winterfell needs them. They need farmers and weavers and a maester and children and food and life. Winterfell needs life. So Sansa reaches for her robe and pulls more feathers from its hide. In time, the Gods render her a brother as reward.

 

He is not the little boy she remembers. Soft boy features have made way for the harsher lines of an approaching manhood. His eyes now gleam with murder, his wolf wilder than before. Feral. Savage. There is a short while, in which the winds blow soft and Sansa can hear it whisper. He holds a lock of her hair between his fingers, eyes it pensively and arms come to wrap around her. She holds him close and shelters him underneath her wings, whispering his name to his auburn curls.

 

Then he growls and turns away.

 

Her eyes open for the first time.

She plucks her robe whole.

 

(She is not a little dove.)

 

One last snowstorm before the Winter ends. Harsher. Colder.

Sansa bathes in the springs of the godswood without even a shiver.

She resurrects; gains what was once lost.

 

The Stark maiden bares her fangs and Winter ends.

 

(This is a tale of the she-wolf reborn.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the asoiafkinkmeme. I really wanted to stick to the original tales surrounding the swanmaiden but then I didn't, and I hope anon enjoys it regardless. I hope you enjoyed this as well. :) Feedback and criticism is always welcomed! 
> 
> I would also like to thank my wonderful beta BlackWingBecci.


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